Martyrs
by the-lovely-anomaly
Summary: We all have crosses to bear. DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

I

It was six minutes past midnight and Cody Martin stood naked in front of his bathroom mirror, examining gashes in his forehead—linear grooves etched into his skin, extending from his hairline to his eyebrows, crisscrossing, burning. Bailey was outside the locked bathroom door, rapping on it, twisting the knob that wouldn't budge, yelling at Cody to let her in. Cody applied hydrogen peroxide to the cuts he could see, but the back of his head was stinging also. He touched his fingers to the space right below his crown, feeling warm, goopy blood clumping his hair.

"Cody, come _on_!" Bailey was getting pissed now. "Open the damn door!"

Cody washed his blood-stained fingers and then did as she said. It took a moment for him to register the sight of her. Her eyes were wide with anger and worry, her face streaked with blood—_his_ blood, the droplets that had fallen from his forehead to hers and had trailed down the side of her nose when she bolted up.

She had put on his shirt when he ran away. She was wearing it now, though her legs were bare. And he highly doubted she'd taken the time to put on panties.

"What the fuck, Cody?" she gasped. "What the fuck just happened?"

Cody backed away from the door, overwhelmed. "I'm not sure," he replied.

She reached for him, her hand aiming for his sliced forehead, and he backed up further. "What _is_ this?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No," he said.

"You need to see a doctor."

"And what would I say? That my head just mysteriously started cutting itself while I was in the middle of a fuck? 'Cause that sounds real believable."

"I dunno, but you need to say _something_."

Cody sighed. "If I see a doctor, you know what he'll think?"

Bailey shook her head but decided to humor him. "What?"

"He'll think I did this to _myself_, and he'll put me in a nuthouse."

Bailey looked down for a moment, biting her lower lip in contemplation. "I still think you should chance it. Shit ain't been right with you for months. Ever since you came back, you haven't been yourself. I'm not saying you belong in a nuthouse, but I think it's time you stop acting like you're okay and _talk_ to someone."

"I'll be fine." Cody's voice was cold as he turned towards the shower. "You better leave."

Bailey scoffed. "Yeah, figures you'd shut me out," she said bitterly.

"I'm not shutting you out. I just need to be alone right now."

Cody stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. As he turned the faucet on, he could hear Bailey walk out of the bathroom and slam the door behind her.

He only mildly soaped himself. Instead he watched as the blood from his hair swirled down the drain with the water. His whole head was on fire with pain. Tears pooled his eyes. He closed them. Breathed. Breathed again. Then reopened them and bent down to turn the water off.

He pulled back the curtain, grabbed a towel from the towel rack hanging above the toilet, dried himself off, and then wrapped the towel around his wounded head like a turban. He didn't bother getting dressed. His head was throbbing and he felt as though a huge weight had been placed on his shoulders.

He hobbled over to his unmade bed where he and Bailey had been making fast and rough love just moments before, and plopped down. He sprawled out across his sheets, sucking in long, deep breaths. His fingers found their way to his forehead, gliding over the marred skin. It stung, but he ignored the pain. He thought about what Bailey had said, about him not being himself ever since he came back. She'd been right, though she probably thought he was suffering from post traumatic stress. His trip to the Middle East hadn't exactly been pleasurable. But he had never told her about the man with the missing eye—the man who had "blessed" him and then fallen to his knees, sobbing and muttering unintelligible words.

Cody had accepted the blessing out of respect, but now he wondered if he should have. For several nights following it, he had been plagued by a series of nightmares depicting earthquakes, thunderstorms, erected crosses with no one hanging on them, and statues crying blood. He wasn't exactly a superstitious person, but these nightmares were recurrent and vivid, and they left him with an ominous feeling that he couldn't shake.

Drifting off to sleep, his towel turban still encasing his burning head, he experienced one of those nightmares now. In this one he was standing on a grassy hilltop, staring at the horizon, when an invisible force knocked him onto his back. Beneath him, the grass receded into the ground, leaving behind a cracked and dry desert land on which his body burned and burned. The sky above had turned from light blue to blazing red.

Cody woke up panting and sweating, his forehead throbbing even more than before.

It was time for a drink. He forced himself off the bed, shuffled over to the kitchen section of his apartment, and opened his fridge. There was some Vodka left over, as well as some orange juice. Just enough for one substantial drink. He took them both out, mixed them in a glass, and then threw the empty Vodka bottle and orange juice carton away and sat down at his kitchen table.

The phone rang just after his first gulp. He jumped. "Son of a bitch," he said under his breath. He decided to let the answering machine get it. He didn't want to move. Too much work, too much pain. His head felt swelled. A tension headache was on its way.

"Codes, I know you're there. Pick up." It was his brother, Zack. He sounded like he needed something. "I'm gonna keep calling until you pick up. I'll flood your inbox if I have to."

Cody groaned as he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled over to his phone. When he answered, his tone was annoyed. "What do you want, Zack?"

"Well hello to you too, grouch," said Zack.

Cody waited for him to state what he wanted. It wouldn't take long.

"Listen, I'm about to go on a date, and I really gotta ask a favor."

"You need money."

"You know me so well."

Cody rolled his eyes. "How much?"

"Thirty."

"You don't have thirty bucks?"

"Nah, I overdrew my account again."

"Jesus Christ, Zack. If we weren't twins, I'd swear we weren't related."

"I love you too, bro." There were kissing sounds on the other end, giggles. Cody faintly heard Zack whisper "Not now, babe" to his latest lady before continuing over the phone. "But, yeah, I'll get the money back to you as soon as I get paid."

"Sure," Cody said. He could have argued, but he wasn't in the mood. Or in the condition.

"Great. So when should I stop by and get it? The date's at seven."

"Whenever you want. I'll leave it on the kitchen counter."

"Are you not going to be there?"

"No."

More kissing sounds. More giggles. Zack chuckled. "Hold on a sec," he told his girl. Then over the phone to Cody, "Where're you going?"

"Just take the money."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah."

There was a long, awkward pause. Cody sensed that Zack didn't believe him, but he didn't say anything. And Zack chose not to say anything either. "So, like, I haven't seen you in ages, man. What gives?" he asked instead. Cody recognized the question as a round-about way of asking him how he was.

He shrugged, even though Zack couldn't see him. "I dunno. Been busy."

"How are things between you and the Hay Bail?"

"Bailey's fine."

"But you're not?"

"I'm fine too. We're both fine."

"That's…good."

"Look, Zack, I gotta go."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I just gotta go."

"Alright, well, we should hang out sometime, you know?"

"Yeah…we should." Pause. "Have fun on your date."

"You know I will."

Cody was the first to hang up.

After he finished his screwdriver, he went to his room, got dressed, took a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, placed them on the kitchen table under his empty glass, and then locked himself in the bathroom and stared at the gashes on his forehead again.

He was still in the bathroom when Zack came by for the money. He heard the front door open and didn't make a sound. Zack took the cash and left, and Cody continued to stare in the mirror at his disfigured face.

.

Cody was in bed again. His head didn't throb as much, but he had a fever. The back of his neck was sweltering. He turned his pillow over, and then turned it over again when it got so hot he couldn't stand it. He yanked his blanket off, then pulled it back up when he started shivering. He wanted a cold washcloth but felt too weak to move.

He shifted in and out of sleep. Nightmares disturbed him. In one he was desperately trying to make it out of a massive thorn bush, every move he made sending prickly bursts of pain through his skin; in another he stepped on a long, bent, solid black nail while wandering in a desert and trailed blood as he looked for help; in another he was chased by a talking snake that kept telling him to follow it.

He barely heard the knock on his door, but Bailey's voice was crystal as she shouted his name. He didn't answer. He couldn't. His tongue was heavy and his lips felt glued shut. All he could do was listen and linger somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

"Is he alright?" she asked after a few moments. Her voice was louder now.

A cold hand touched his forehead. "He's got a fever," declared a male voice he didn't recognize. "But I see those cut marks."

Cody forced his eyes open. A middle-aged man with graying hair and bifocals met his gaze. "Morning," he said. "I'm Dr. Matthew Gorman. Your girlfriend brought me here. You want to tell me how you got those cuts on your forehead?"

Cody clenched his teeth. Bailey had went and gotten a doctor. He'd never forgive her for that.


	2. Chapter 2

II

The light nearly blinded him—a balmy miasma of white. His eyes were sore, but he kept them open as the doctor wound a black cord through his skin, stitching his gashes up one by one. His fever had subsided, but his ears were swimming. Dr. Matthew Gorman spoke to him but he couldn't hear a word. Just muffled noise.

He had the ocean inside his head, and he rocked in and out of dreams like a ship.

.

"I assume you know why you're here," the psychologist, Sonya Anderson, said. She was smiling, but Cody could tell it wasn't genuine. He knew a fake smile when he saw one.

"I know," he answered, his eyes wandering from her too-white teeth to the desk behind which she sat. She was an organized person by the looks of it. Stacks of crates were situated at the edge with papers shuffled into them. Her computer and keyboard were both well-dusted. Pens and pencils were clumped together in a utensil holder. The only thing that looked remotely out of place was the evaluation sheet, which was lying right in front of her, ready to label him.

There was also a coffee mug on the desk, which she put to her lips before speaking. "How are you feeling today, Cody?"

He sighed. "Tired."

"Tired, huh? Why's that?" She set her coffee down and took up her pen. Clicked it. Touched the ball-point tip to the paper. "Have you been experiencing sleep disturbances?"

"Nightmares," he answered.

She wrote that down. "What kind of nightmares?"

"The scary kind."

She looked up from the paper and caught his eye, smiling that faux Barbie doll smile. "I meant what are they about?"

Cody shrugged. "How the hell should I know? They're just a bunch of random images."

"Well what _kind _of images?"

"Weird images."

Sonya Anderson pursed her lips, dissatisfied. She thought for a moment, then opted to change the subject. "Have you been experiencing a lot of stress lately?"

"You mean other than the fact that my face is all jacked up? No, not really."

"No problems with your personal life?"

"Nada."

"And how about your job?"

"I don't even have a job."

"You don't have a job?" She found this surprising.

"Nope. Got laid off, kinda."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean I don't work anymore, but not because I don't want to."

She scribbled on the evaluation sheet for a whole minute before continuing. "Why did you get laid off? The economy?"

"No."

She waited.

"It was personal reasons," Cody admitted. "My boss thought I needed some time off, that's all. I didn't fuck up, I just needed a breather."

"I see." She scribbled some more. "And what was this 'breather' for?"

"I..." Cody paused, sighing. "I recently had some problems I needed to deal with. Emotional problems."

"Anxiety? Depression?"

"Both," Cody said. "And panic."

She glanced up at him, then scribbled. "Have you ever experienced a panic attack?"

Cody said "yes" but didn't elaborate.

"How many have you had?"

"I'm not sure. Three, maybe?"

"When was your last?"

"About four months ago."

"Okay, so you haven't had one for a while," she stated, more to herself than to him.

"Sex helped," Cody said. "So did alcohol."

"Are you a heavy drinker?"

"Heavier than I used to be."

"So you self-medicate." Another comment that didn't require an answer.

There was a brief moment of silence. Sonya Anderson looked up, once again, from the evaluation sheet. "So when did this start?"

"The drinking?"

"Everything."

Cody hesitated, staring at her desk. His eyes followed her hand as she lifted up her coffee mug and brought it to her lips. When she took it away, she had blood on her upper lip. Cody jolted, blinked, sure he was seeing things. And sure enough, in an instant, the blood was gone.

"Cody, are you alright?" Sonya Anderson asked.

"Y-yeah," Cody stammered. "Yeah, I'm fine." He sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. "Um, I think it all started last September."

"Anything happen then? A trauma of some sort?"

"Yeah... well, not _one_ trauma. Several."

Sonya Anderson was stunned. "Several traumas?"

Cody scratched his arm, squirmed in his seat, crossed and uncrossed his legs. His heartbeat sped up. His mouth dried. "Mhm" was all he could bring himself to say.

"Were these traumas in close succession?"

He nodded.

Sonya Anderson glimpsed down at the evaluation sheet, but then looked back at Cody with an apologetic expression. "You know I'm going to have to ask what happened, right?"

"You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't," Cody said.

The coffee mug went back to Sonya Anderson's lips and he braced himself. But there was no blood this time. There was nothing.

He swallowed. "I went to Afghanistan April of last year."

Sonya Anderson narrowed her eyebrows, curious. "Are you in the military?"

"I'm a journalist—or, I was before I got laid off. Saw some pretty nasty shit. Experienced some pretty nasty shit, too. It wasn't a good business trip."

"And that's when you started having panic attacks?"

"Not quite. I didn't start having them until a good month or so after I came home. It was weird. While I was there I was just doing my thing. I didn't really stop and think about what was going on; I just went where I had to go and did what I had to do." Cody gave a humorless chuckle. "It wasn't until I was safe that I started to freak out."

Sonya nodded and wrote that down.

"Do you think I did this to myself?" Cody braved, pointing to his forehead.

He didn't have to explain further.

"I think _you_ don't think you did," she replied.

That was enough of an answer for him. He stood up and walked out.

.

"I was only trying to _help_, Cody."

"Yeah, thanks for nothing."

Bailey crossed her arms, annoyed. "What was I supposed to do? Act like it never happened?"

"Yes."

She gave him an incredulous look.

"I've seen this shrink once, and she _already_ thinks I'm nuts."

"Well did you tell her what happened?"

"Pfft, no! The last thing I need is Thorazine."

Bailey's fingers went to her left eyebrow and scratched. They did that when she was aggravated and didn't know what to do or say. "Something needs to be done, Cody."

"The hell it does. Everything's fine."

"Please tell me you're not serious."

Cody and Bailey rounded the street corner, passing a jogger and a kid riding a bicycle. Both stole a glance at Cody's forehead.

"I'm totally serious," Cody responded.

"Cody, something's _wrong_."

"It doesn't matter."

"It _does_! You need help."

"What I need is to be left alone. I'm not gonna let this turn me into a freak."

"It kind of already has."

"No it hasn't!"

"Cody,"—Bailey placed her hand on his shoulder—"it doesn't matter whether you're a freak or not. What matters is that you're safe…and not hurting yourself."

Cody backed away from her, moving to where she couldn't reach him. "I did _not_ hurt myself!" he screamed.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"Just forget it." He crammed his fists into his jean pockets, exasperated. "I'm going home now."

And just like that, he took off down the street in the direction of his apartment.

When he was out of earshot, Bailey dug out her cell phone and called Zack.

.

"Holy shit, Cody, what happened?" Zack exclaimed. He was standing outside Cody's apartment door, staring at his brother with a mixture of shock and concern. He'd rushed over as soon as Bailey had told him Cody was hurt.

"What are you doing here?" Cody asked him.

"Bailey called me. What the fuck happened to your head?"

Cody seethed. It wasn't enough that she'd called a doctor, Bailey had to go and get his brother involved. Pretty soon everyone was going to think he was suicidal.

"Cody?" Zack prodded.

"How was your date?"

"Don't avoid the question."

Cody sighed, looking down guiltily. "I don't know how it happened," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it just happened. No explanation. I was fine and then…this."

"That makes no sense!"

"It doesn't matter if it makes sense or not, it's the truth."

Zack shook his head, flabbergasted. Cody knew what he was thinking but didn't say a word. "Now, if that's all, I'd really like to get some rest," he said instead.

"I'm not leaving," Zack told him matter-of-factly.

"Fine, you can hang around. Just don't wake me up." Cody stood aside to let his brother enter his apartment. "And don't invite your new girlfriend over. I'm not in the mood to clean my couch again."

.

Cody downed some sleeping pills and then passed out.

He dreamed that he was, once again, in a desert. This time he was naked and sitting, cross-legged, in a circle that had been etched into the sand. He was waiting for something. What, he didn't know, but he figured he'd recognize it when it came. He stared at his surroundings. He was all alone save for the sun and the sand. His skin was red-hot. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face, back, and chest. His vision shimmered, mirage-like, and his eyelids drooped as though gravity were pulling them down.

There was a cactus plant in front of him, towering over him like an angry authority figure, its prickly surface glaring him down. All of a sudden, it caught fire and burned to a cinder block. Cody felt the smoke envelope his body, corrode his lungs. He coughed, long and hard. Covered his face. Lied down and curled into a ball. He wanted to leave the circle, but knew he couldn't. So he stayed and endured, his red-painted skin turning shades of black.

He dreamed of vulchers, of snakes and scorpions. He dreamed of tumbleweeds, and of swirling sand. When he woke up, he coughed incessantly and sucked in deep, slow breaths. He looked around, not sure where he was at first, afraid for a second that he was back in Afghanistan. When he saw that he was inside his bedroom, he started to cry. He cried silently into his pillow for several minutes, before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and getting out of bed.

He grabbed his wallet from his dresser top. Left the room.

Zack was nowhere to be seen, but as Cody passed through his living room space, he heard his bathroom toilet flush. He hastened to the front door. Opened it. Stepped out. Closed it behind him as quickly and quietly as he could. And then took off running down the street.


	3. Chapter 3

III

Cody ran to the closest Greyhound bus station and hopped a bus going to Arizona. Why he chose Arizona, he had no idea. Perhaps it was the idea of going somewhere virtually the opposite of Boston. Perhaps it was the idea of being in a desert. He had nothing with him except his thinning wallet and the clothes on his back, but he didn't care. His lack of supplies would spice up the journey. He had never been fond of buses, but they were the only way he could travel these days, besides walking. He didn't have a car since Zack had totaled his Chevy, and not having a job at the moment put a huge damper on getting a new one.

He sat by himself, next to a tinted window. Not many people were leaving Boston that day. The few who were noticed his forehead and did double takes. One small kid even stared for a length of time before his mother told him to stop being rude. No one spoke to him, and he didn't speak to anyone else.

He watched towns speed by—lights, windows, cars, signs. They were all the same. Elderly men sat outside thrift stores in overalls, smoking cigars; children ran around on mown lawns in shorts and bathing suits; tourists with fake tans and dyed hair wandered about, talking on their cell phones, dragging along reluctant toddlers, and standing on sidewalks with plastic bags filled to the brim. It was springtime. Decorations of painted eggs and white, smiley rabbits reminded him that it was almost Easter.

The bus went and stopped, went and stopped. People came and left. Cody received numerous looks and stares. No one commented on his forehead, though. For that he was grateful.

.

Thirty-two butt-numbing hours after boarding, Cody was the last one on the bus. He kept staring out his window at the changing scenery. The driver stole glances every now and then back at him, an expression of wonder on his face. "You going to Arizona, kid?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah."

"Something there for you?"

Cody almost smiled. "I'm not sure."

He expected the driver to make some snide remark about the younger generation having no direction in life, but the old man didn't. In fact, he nodded and even smiled as though he understood what "I'm not sure" actually meant. "What happened to your forehead?" he questioned. "Someone jack you up?"

"Some_thing_," Cody responded.

The driver furrowed his eyebrows in confusion but decided not to pry. He was silent for the rest of the way.

When Cody stepped off the bus four hours later, the sun was high in the sky and it was blazing hot. He had to shield his eyes to survey his surroundings. Tucson, Arizona. A city surrounded by desert wasteland, with mountains in the distance. He'd been dropped off at the downtown area, so there was a nice juxtaposition between sand and civilization. It looked almost nonsensical—dreamlike, even—but it worked.

The first public place Cody wandered to was a little shop behind a gas station. There was a man with dirty blond dreadlocks, an old plaid shirt, and tattered jeans sitting outside on the concrete platform playing guitar there. Cody listened to him. He was pretty good, although the song he was playing was about the sky opening up and raining fire.

Cody dug out his wallet and opened it, searching for some change. He figured helping out an artist was worth losing a dollar or two.

But the man stopped playing and said, "I don't play for money."

"You don't?" Cody mused, closing his wallet and returning it to his back pocket.

"Nah, I play 'cause I want to."

"Well, then, why are you sitting out here?"

The man shrugged. "Why not? Why play where no one can hear it? Music is for everyone, man."

A slight chuckle escaped Cody's lips. "Yeah, I guess so."

He took a seat next to the man, crossing his legs Indian-style. "So, did you write that song yourself?"

"Sure did."

"Why did you write about the world being destroyed by fire?"

"Name me one other musician who's done that."

Cody couldn't think of a single one. "Point taken."

"Everyone else is too busy singing about their love lives and their drinking habits. Musicians these days are all the same. They need to get more intense with their work. Shock people a little."

"Have you sold any of your stuff?"

"I don't sell." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He tapped one out, stuck it in his mouth, put the pack back in his pocket, took out a lighter, and lit the tip. "You want one?" he asked Cody.

Cody shook his head. The thought of having anything related to fire or smoke inside his mouth made him queasy.

The man took a hit. Exhaled. "I don't sell my music," he continued. "To me, music should be free. It's a form of expression. No one should have to pay to hear someone express themselves. It should be like it was back in the old days, when people used to gather together and just sing, without demanding rewards for it." He shook his head. "Capitalism, man—the never-ending itch in the world's asshole."

Cody chuckled again, more loudly. Of course the first person he met would be an eccentric. Cody liked him, though. He seemed like an interesting guy to get to know.

"Nah, man, my music is my gift to the world," he added. "And it's real music, you know? None of that techno, electrical shit. Just me and my guitar."

"Right," Cody said. "Can you play something else?"

"Sure thing. Just let me finish my cigarette first."

Cody waited as the paper of his new-found friend's cigarette burned to ash. "By the way," he spoke as the man took his last hit, "my name's Cody. What's yours?"

The man squashed the burnt end of his cigarette against the concrete. "Johnny," he replied.

Cody extended his hand a Johnny shook it. Then he played another song on his guitar.

It was about a woman walking out on her husband and son, from the son's point of view.

"Damn," Cody said once it had ended. "Is all that true?"

"Every word," Johnny answered.

"Did your mom ever come back?"

"Nope. My dad got a new girlfriend later, though, so it wasn't so bad."

Cody nodded. "Yeah, my parents got divorced when I was real young."

"It's life, man."

"That it is."

Without being asked, Johnny started playing a tune on his guitar, but then stopped.

"Hey, that was good. Why'd you stop?"

"That's all I've got so far. The song's not finished. I keep trying to finish it, but for some reason, I can't think of where to go next."

"Does the song have lyrics?"

"Nope. Instrumental."

Cody nodded. "Play it again," he said.

Johnny did.

"Why don't you just repeat the first part," Cody suggested.

"I dunno, man. I thought about that, but that's kinda repetitive. And cliché. All musicians do shit like that."

Cody couldn't resist smiling. He definitely liked this guy. "Can't have clichés, can you?"

Johnny shook his head, then sighed. "I think I should get going here in a little bit," he said. "I've been playing out here for nearly five hours."

"No shit?"

"No shit. I've done worse, though." Johnny laid his guitar gently into its black case and then forced himself to his feet, grunting as he did so. "One time I was out here for eight hours."

"Dude, how do you do it?" Cody asked in amazement as he stood up as well and brushed off the back of his jeans.

"Dedication, man. The love of music. You believe in something, you'll do anything for it."

Cody had nothing to say to that. "So, where ya headed?"

"Home," came Johnny's reply.

"Where's that?"

"A few blocks down that road." Johnny pointed. "Where're you staying?"

"I, uh…" Cody hesitated, embarrassed.

Johnny read his mind. "You don't have a place to stay, do you?"

Cody flashed him a guilty expression. "I kinda ran away," he explained. "Personal reasons."

"You don't have to explain yourself, man. It's cool. Listen, I know a place where you can chill if you're interested. Hotels here cost a fortune."

"Yeah, man. Thanks!" Cody was a bit surprised by Johnny's generosity. "Do you make offers like this to every stranger you meet?"

"Only if I like 'em."

"You barely know me."

"Yeah, but you made an impression."

His guitar case in hand, Johnny started walking down the road. Cody followed him.

"You know, I wasn't going to say anything," Johnny said a moment later. "But now that I know your name and all, I feel the need to ask—what happened to your forehead, man?"

.

"I can't believe this." Bailey paced the floor, frantic, her face streaked with tears, her fingers compulsively running through her hair. "Where could he have gone?"

Zack shook his head, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen of his cell phone. "I don't know," he muttered.

She glared at him. "This is all your fault."

"_My_ fault?"

"I _told_ you to keep an eye on him, and you didn't!"

"I just went to the fucking bathroom! I was gone for five minutes, tops! When I came out, he'd disappeared. How was I supposed to account for that? What, am I not allowed to take a piss while babysitting my twin brother? This is _not_ my fucking fault, Bailey!"

Bailey groaned, agitated, and started pacing faster. Her fingers went to her eyebrow and scratched.

"And besides," Zack went on, "where were _you_ when he ran away, huh? Why didn't _you_ keep an eye on him? He is your boyfriend after all. If this is my fault, it's damn well yours too!"

"You're right," Bailey said, stopping in her tracks. "I shouldn't have put all that on you. I'm sorry." She sighed. "It's _my_ fault, not yours. You did the best you could."

Zack looked up at her, his face matter-of-fact. Expressionless. "He was never the same after Afghanistan, was he?" he said.

Bailey shook her head.

"Has he told you what happened?"

"Bits and pieces, but I can tell he's keeping most of it in."

"He's gotta tell someone.… He can't keep letting it eat away at him like this."

"That's what I tell him, but he won't listen."

Just then, Zack's phone rang. He jumped and picked it up. "Hello?" he said into it. It was his and Cody's mother, Carey. She'd just received his text message to her and was on her way over. She was confused and hysterical. Zack had to calm her down. Reassure her. She kept apologizing for not getting back to him sooner, explaining over and over that she'd been insanely busy the past few days. He told her it was alright.

When he finally managed to hang up, he looked at Bailey. "She's coming over," he said.

Bailey nodded. "Good."

"Knowing her, she'll want to call the police."

"We might have to."

Zack grimaced. He hoped not.

.

The place Johnny had offered Cody was an old, abandoned mining factory sandwiched between two pairs of train tracks and a steep hillside covered in weeds and shrubs. It was shabby, but Cody had seen worse in Afghanistan. The windows were broken and hazy. Cobwebs hung in all the corners. The surfaces were caked with dust. The walls, streaked with grime. But it would do. It was good enough.

The factory was home to twelve other guys, eight of whom were there when Johnny and Cody walked through the door. The other four, Johnny said, were most likely out getting something to eat and would be back sometime soon. In the meantime, he introduced Cody to the eight guys who were present. Peter, who was known as Pete, was sitting against a pillar, reading a tattered copy of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_; Matthew, who went by Matt, and Andrew, who preferred being called Andy, were playing cards on an old mattress; Tom, Jamie, and Bart were sitting in a circle, conversing between hits of a joint that they were sharing; Simon was listening to a banged up iPod while sitting on a pile of flattened cardboard boxes; and Leroy was bundled up in a quilt, sleeping—that is, until Johnny woke him up to tell him he'd be having a new housemate, which he responded to with nonchalance before turning over and dozing off.

Andy was particularly good friends with Johnny and seemed nice enough, so when Johnny left to go home, Cody decided to stay near him. He and Matt were in the middle of their card game. Cody sat down on the floor and watched them. "Who's winning?" he asked.

"I am," said Andy.

"Only 'cause you cheat," teased Matt.

"I do not cheat."

"Yes you do. That's why no one else plays with you."

Andy looked at Cody as though about to let him in on a little secret and said, "The real reason why no one else plays with me is because I'm just that good." He winked.

"I'm pretty decent," Cody stated. He'd had plenty of experience playing cards while waiting to interview soldiers in Afghanistan.

"Are you now?" Andy sized Cody up as he selected a card from the stack between him and Matt. "Care for a round?"

"Sure."

Cody waited patiently while Andy and Matt finished their game, asking intermittent questions like "Where are you from?" and "How did you come to live in a place like this?" He learned that Andy was the son of a fisherman who, after a divorce, was forced to live with his mother in Tucson, and that he'd left home at eighteen and had met Johnny while wandering the streets. Matt, on the other hand, was the son of two accountants who didn't pay much attention to him, and as a result, had lost him to Social Services. He had stayed in foster care until he was eighteen, and then left as well.

Cody looked around, pondering the ages and back stories of all the other guys. He also pondered whether they all had Johnny in common.

A couple of the guys came around to watch Cody's match with Andy. Andy had never been beaten except once, by Johnny, so they were all banking on him. One of them even said to Cody, "Man, once you play cards with Andy, you'll never wanna play cards again."

Cody didn't care, though. He wasn't interested in winning. He just wanted something to do.

It turned out he was better than he and the other guys thought he was because, much to his and their surprise, he won.

"Shit, someone needs to write this in a calendar," proclaimed Matt.

The guys all laughed. Cody did too.

A few hours later, the four guys who'd gone out—James, Phil, Jude, and Jonah—came back. They brought with them food, pillows and, to Pete's gratitude, books. They also brought a pack of cigarettes (Cody soon found out that three of them smoked, and they all shared packs) and a case of soda. Cody introduced himself to them, telling them that Johnny had invited him to stay with them. They seemed especially happy to see him after hearing that. "If Johnny likes ya, we know you're cool," one of them said.

Matt told them that Cody had beaten Andy at cards, and they all found that newsworthy.

After setting down _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_, Pete suggested making Cody feel welcome. So all the guys—except Leroy, who Cody soon learned was sick—gathered in a circle and started offering him first dibs on food and asking him questions. Tons of questions.

By the time night fell and Cody had gone to bed (on top of the old mattress that Matt and Andy had been playing on and were kind enough to spare), he had spilled just about everything about himself except where the gashes on his forehead came from and what all he'd experienced in Afghanistan.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

Cody had been gone for three days.

A missing person's report was filed. Carey made copies of a reward poster with Cody's picture on it and had the copies hung up all around Boston. She made phone calls, went to the press, urged the police to send out a search party—she did everything she could do.

All that was left was the hardest part: waiting.

.

Cody's third day at the mining factory in Tucson, Arizona began at dawn, when he awoke before any of the other guys did and quietly—tiptoeing his way past them as they slept—went outside. He sat on the steps that led to the main door and watched the sunrise.

He'd always loved sunrises. Even as a kid. Everything was so peaceful, so new. He would watch as the sunlight overcame the darkness, as the shadows receded and gave way to brightness, and think it was the closest thing to perfection in existence.

The sun was still in the process of ascending over the horizon when Cody heard the creaking sound of the door's hinges, followed by that of shuffling feet, behind him and turned around to see who was there.

It was Leroy, wrapped securely in his quilt, holding in his hand a black, medium-sized notebook. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

"Not at all." Cody hardly knew anything about Leroy, and the thought of being in close proximity to someone who was getting over an illness irked him, but he didn't want to appear rude so he said nothing as Leroy sat down next to him.

"Pete told me you were a journalist," Leroy said, handing Cody the notebook, "so I had him go out and get this for you."

Cody took it and looked it over. It was brand new. The pages inside were blank. "Thanks," he said.

"It's nothing special." Leroy shrugged. "I just figured it'd be a good way to break the ice since, you know, we haven't exactly gotten acquainted."

"Well, I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure."

Leroy nodded and then turned his attention to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to peek.

"So what have you been sick with these past few days?" asked Cody. "Is it contagious?"

Leroy looked as though he was holding back a smile. "Uh, no," he said with a slight, almost sarcastic chuckle. "It's not like that."

"What do you mean?"

Leroy hesitated a moment, as if not sure what to say, but then replied simply with, "I'm a recovering junkie."

Cody couldn't understand why he was taken aback by that, but he was. Perhaps it was the sheer honesty in Leroy's voice. "Oh," was all he could say.

Leroy nodded again, tilting his head down in what looked like embarrassment.

Without thinking, Cody's hand went to his shoulder. "It's alright, man. No judgment from me."

Leroy smiled a genuine smile at that.

.

Later on that same day, Leroy gave Cody a pen and Cody began writing.

.

_Monday, 10:25 a.m._

_I woke up early this morning and watched the sunrise with Leroy. It was nice. He gave me this notebook. Said it was a way to break the ice between us. It wasn't really necessary, but I was grateful just the same. Lord knows, I need something to do while I'm here besides play cards, read books, and chit chat with the other guys. They're all great, don't get me wrong, but I need some time to myself. After all, that's why I came here in the first place. At least, I think it is. _

_Pete says that at noon today he wants to go see a movie with me and a couple of the others. I'm not sure how it's going to work with what little money we all have, but Pete says not to worry, he's got a plan. Whatever that means. Guess I'll have to find out. _

_It's strange—even though I'm away from home and everything I know, I'm happy. I like it here. I miss Bailey and Zack and all, but I don't regret coming here. Is that selfish of me? I don't even know why I came in the first place. I just felt this urge to "go." I'm sure people are worried about me. I'm sure they're pissed off and hysterical, wondering where the hell I am. I can't bring myself to want to go back though. I should probably give them a call at some point, but I don't want to go back home just yet. _

_I don't have the dreams anymore. I've slept here for two nights and both were completely dreamless. I woke up feeling refreshed, like I used to when I was younger, before Afghanistan and… well, everything. For the first time since that whole mess, I can close my eyes and only see darkness. _

_You don't realize how much you take the dark for granted until you lose it. And when you get it back, the light is just that much more beautiful. I'm telling you. _

_2:47 p.m._

_We went to the movies—Pete, me, Andy, James, and Simon, that is. I asked Leroy if he wanted to go, but he said he still wasn't feeling a hundred percent. Come to find out, it was for the best that there were only five of us. Any more would likely have raised suspicion. _

_Pete did have his own little plan for going to the movies. The plan was, one guy would buy a ticket while the other four waited outside the side door which separated the parking lot from the theater hallway. The one guy would go down the hallway, open the door (it only opened from the inside to prevent people from sneaking in), let the others in, tell them which theater their movie was playing in, and together they'd watch it. All of them, for the price of one ticket._

_I felt a little bad, but I have to hand it to Pete—that was pretty clever. And it was an exhilarating experience, it really was. It's nice to break the rules every once in a while. I wish I'd done that more often in my life, honestly. _

_8:02 p.m._

_Johnny came by. He brought a couple of pizzas, some beers, and his guitar. He played song after song after song as we ate and joked around. It was a lot of fun. _

_Before he left, he took Leroy aside and spoke to him privately. I don't know what they said, but when they came back, Leroy looked worried. So did Johnny._

_I'm worried too, although I can't explain why. _

_9:37 p.m._

_The sun's going down, and I'm sitting on the same steps I sat on this morning, watching it. I tried talking to Leroy a few minutes ago, but he wouldn't say anything. I assured him that he could trust me but he just told me to fuck off, and then went to bed. I don't blame him, really. I shouldn't have opened my mouth. His business is none of mine. I'll apologize in the morning._

_Jesus, this sunset is beautiful. _

.

_Tuesday, 12:35 p.m._

_I slept in a little today (couldn't stop thinking about Leroy and his addiction), but I still managed to wake up in time to greet the sun. It had already risen over the horizon, but just barely. Pete and James went out to get breakfast and came back with muffins and a few of those cheap sample boxes of cereal. There were also leftovers from last night, which was a big help. _

_After eating I apologized to Leroy. I told him I was sorry for being such a pushy jerk, and that I should have minded my own business. He shrugged, said it was okay, and then smiled and offered for us to hang out later. _

_There's a bar not too far from the mining factory—meaning it's in walking distance—and Leroy wants us to go there. I'm excited. Haven't been to a bar in several weeks. I have some money left in my wallet and I'm in need of a good screwdriver._

_9:10 p.m._

_I'm not sure how to say what all I'm about to say, so I'm just going to babble and try to make sense of it all. I'm shaking as I write this and I can barely see through the tears in my eyes, but I'll do the best I can. _

_Leroy and I went to the bar. It started off being a lot of fun. We played pool, had some drinks, joked around—you name it. But then, get this, as we were leaving, we saw this prostitute getting jumped by six guys. That's right, six guys. They called her just about every fowl name under the sun and then started tossing her back and forth like a rag doll, slapping her around and whatnot. Neither of us had any idea what she'd done to piss these guys off, but I wasn't going to sit back and let them beat her to death._

_So right after one guy pushed her to the ground, I stepped in and told him and the rest of them to get lost. They all looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I asked them what was wrong with them, ganging up on a woman. I didn't get a clear answer but one of them said something like, "We don't need trash like her around here." I told them it was ironic that they should call her trash when they themselves were drunk off their asses and had her outnumbered. _

_They didn't like that, not one bit. I'm thoroughly convinced that had Leroy not ran back inside and told the bartender to call the police, I'd be dead right now. I owe that man my life. I'm going to have to remember to thank him._

_The prostitute's name is Melinda Monroe. I say "is" because I brought her back to the factory with me. She's lying down next to me, curled into a ball as I write. I brought her back because she had nowhere else to go, and knowing me, I wasn't going to just leave her there. I couldn't do that. _

_Leroy wasn't too happy about having another mouth to feed, but ultimately he understood. She thanked us about a hundred times as we took her back with us, and even offered to fuck us both for free. We told her that wouldn't be necessary. _

_Anyway, the worst part was when we got back. Everyone was upset. Jamie, Simon, and Andy were sobbing. Matt was pacing and cursing. Tom was asking Pete if "it" was true, and how he could possibly know. I asked Phil, who was sitting closest to the door, what was going on. He looked at me, and then looked at Melinda and said, "Who the fuck is she?"_

_I introduced her and told him that she needed a place to stay, which made him start to cry. I asked him again what was going on, and then he told me…_

_Johnny was found dead in an alleyway with his throat cut. We don't know who did it, but some of the guys suspect cops. According to them, this has "cover-up" written all over it. I think they're just pissed off, but I don't know. At the end of the day, I just don't know. _

_I don't know what to think or how I should react. I barely knew Johnny, and yet I can't seem to stop crying. I just feel so bad._

_Leroy and I had a talk after hearing the news. He had already started crying and I was dazed. "I can't fucking believe this," he said, and I responded with a nod and a simple, "He was a good guy." Then Leroy buried his face in his hands and shouted, "He was helping me! He was helping me quit the drugs!" I didn't know what to say, so I just wrapped my arms around him and hugged him for a long time._

_I'm still in somewhat of a daze. It's just like back in Afghanistan. Well not quite, but it's similar. I try to connect with someone and they turn around and die. I'm worried about the guys. They're all so shaken up over this. A lot of them depended on Johnny. What are they going to do now?_

_Earlier Pete was saying that everything happens for a reason. I try to tell myself that, but it'd be so much easier to believe if I only knew what that reason was. _

.

It had been an eventful, emotionally-draining day for Cody Martin, so it was no surprise that he would have a nightmare. What was a surprise, however, was what the nightmare was about.

.

Cody was in the desert again—naked and alone, the bright, sweltering sun above beating down on him. Before him was flat, open land, the heat simmering off the hot sand and rising into the air. He didn't know why but his heart was pounding. He was nervous, worried. He was surrounded by the unknown, by death—a pathetic, lonely death.

He would have cried if it weren't for the shadow that passed over him. He looked up, shielding his eyes as best he could against the sun's blinding glare, and saw… a dove.

Cody was perplexed. A dove? In the desert? It felt so nonsensical, and yet there it was, irrefutable. It circled over him three times and then, to Cody's bewilderment, landed gracefully on the ground before his feet.

He stared at it, and it stared back at him.

And then it spoke.

"Do not be troubled," it said. Its voice was loud despite its delicate appearance.

Cody froze, unable to believe his own ears. _A talking dove_, he thought. _Not a good sign. Once animals start talking to you, you know you're crazy._

The dove seemed to read his mind. "You are not crazed," it assured him. "I am truly speaking to you."

"Wh-why?" Cody stammered, still doubting his sanity.

"You must deliver a message, in my name," the dove replied, "for I am not of this world."

Cody was flabbergasted. He paused for a long moment, mulling over the illogical notion of delivering a message from a dove, and then asked, "What message?"

"You shall know it when you see it," came the answer.

That wasn't much to go on. Cody bit his bottom lip. There was something about the dove, other than its speaking ability, that mystified him. Even though he towered over it in height, Cody felt small staring into its eyes. "Who are you?" he dared to ask.

But the dove did not answer—not directly. It flew away, its cryptic response—"I am that I am"—hovering in the hot, stagnant air.

And just then, the ground beneath Cody's feet broke apart, cracks splitting into it like thin ice over a river, growing, revealing a dark abyss below. Cody ran, but his body was heavy and languid, his legs barely able to move, and the next thing he knew, he was descending—down, down, down—into the unknown.

.

When Cody bolted up on the mattress that he'd claimed as his own, he was drenched in sweat. It was the middle of the night, all the guys—as well as Melinda—were asleep, and he badly had to pee.

Straining against the soreness in his muscles caused by sleeping so close to the hard floor, Cody forced himself to his feet and hobbled in the direction of the bathroom, which basically was a little box of a room attached to the main building by a shabby, wooden bridge. He walked slowly, cruising along the wall, calculating each step so as not to bump into one of the guys. It was virtually pitch-black but by the time he reached the other end of the factory, his eyes had adjusted well enough for him to be able to open the door.

It was a particularly starry night, and fairly quiet, although Cody could hear various sounds in the distance—cars, dogs, people talking, things to be expected in a city. The abandoned factory was located in an area where these sounds were discernible but faded enough to the point where they weren't overwhelming. Cody liked it—the sensation of being part of society and separated from it at the same time.

He made it across the bridge with ease. After sliding open the bathroom door and walking inside, he reached up to pull the light switch. The light was just a single light bulb that hung from the ceiling and often flickered, but its glow was still enough to make Cody wince.

There were three stalls, each of them empty. Cody went into the first, not even bothering to close or lock the door. As he relieved himself he thought of the nightmare he had just had, how strange it was, and felt what he immediately assumed was a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Absentmindedly he touched his fingers to it and examined them.

His breath caught in his throat. It _wasn't_ sweat—it was blood.

Cody zipped up and flushed the toilet, then hurried over to the mirror which hung on the wall above the rusty sink. It was cracked and in desperate need of cleaning, but Cody could see his reflection. The gashes in his forehead had somehow reopened. Blood oozed through his stitches, trickling down his face, leaving crimson trails across his skin. Cody gazed at them, stupefied, panicked. What was happening to him?

A sharp burst of pain shot through his wrists. He screamed and hunched over, cradling his arms to his chest. The pain was so intense it pounded in his head. Hot, sticky blood seeped through his shirt, droplets of it falling to the floor. A crimson puddle. Cody leaned against the stall he'd just been in and gnashed his teeth, trying not to scream again, instinctively balling his hands into fists against the searing pain.

He tried counting in his head—_one, two, three, four_—but it wasn't enough to take him out of reality. His wrists were on fire with agony, blood pattering the floor and soaking through his clothes. What if he bled to death? Tears prickled his eyes. He swallowed, reminding himself to breathe. To just breathe. And not scream.

Eventually the pain subsided, lessening to a dull throb, and Cody steadily relaxed. He had no idea what had just happened, or why, but when he held out his wrists and looked at them he saw—to his horror—that they were each pierced by large, gaping holes that went all the way through.

The door to the bathroom slid open. Startled, Cody whirled around to see Peter and Leroy standing in the threshold, staring at him in shock.


End file.
